


he watches over your body when you die

by Sybli



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier? - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Darkiplier (mentioned vaguely), Gen, this one's a little strange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 18:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12710799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sybli/pseuds/Sybli
Summary: He sits there for ten hours.





	he watches over your body when you die

**Author's Note:**

> You thought that house was gonna leave the Colonel alone for his descent into madness?

He watches over your body when you die. He sits there for **ten hours.**

But before that, he rushes down the stairs after hearing the sick _snap_ as you body hits the marble tile of the foyer. You weren’t supposed to get hurt! The gun wasn’t supposed to go off! You weren’t supposed to fall! He didn’t mean to hurt you! But he can still save you. He can hear your gasping, shuddering breathing echoing through the staircase as he runs down it. As long as you’re still breathing, he can still save you.

_...it was an accident...i swear…_

He tries to stop the bleeding at first. There is so much blood, like a never-ending tide beneath his fingers. Then you stop breathing and he panics. He can't lose you too, you’re all he has left-!

_...Celine...Damien...it’s not fair…_

But even his denial can't beat out the realization that no one could come back from the angle your neck was at. He stumbles away from your bloodied, broken body. Bile rises in his throat as he takes in the scene. Red stains the floor, his shoes, his jacket, _his hands_ , the hands that pulled the trigger - _he did this_ -

He finds himself in the master bathroom a while later with no recollection of how he got there. His jacket is gone. He is scrubbing his hands. His hands look free of blood but do not feel clean yet. They are already red and raw from the scalding water. It doesn’t matter. He keeps scrubbing.

_...i wouldn’t have killed you..._

When he is almost but not quite satisfied with the cleanliness of his hands, he stops. His hands refuse to get any cleaner even though they still don’t feel clean. At the whim of a jittery instinct, he walks through a door that should have led to a linen closet and nearly treads on your body, still lying in the foyer. He looks behind him, to where the master bathroom should still be. It is the archway to living room. A panicked scream begins in the back of his mind.

He stands in the entryway for an unknowable period of time, staring at your body. He swears you blink more than once, but he can never quite be sure. There are odd shadows in the doorways. They may be whispering to him, but when he listens he can never quite be sure. He thinks your head tilts towards him when he looks away, but he can never quite be sure. In the corners of his vision, Celine and Damien flicker in and out of existence. He stops calling out to them after he looks for the twenty-third time to find they aren't there. Your open, glassy eyes stare at him relentlessly. He remembers them being closed when you stopped breathing the first time. The panicked thing in his head gets louder.

At one point, he finds Damien’s cane in his hands. He does not remember where he got it; he cannot remember leaving his vigil over your body. No one found Damien and Celine after they disappeared together; this cane has been the only sign of them. His hands hurt and he can’t remember why anymore. The screaming gets louder. It hurts.

He’s sitting down now. Murky grey light is filtering through the windows. Your body is long cold, but he stares at it anyway. In the hazy light, it almost looks like you’re only passed out. Your blood covering the floor ruins the effect. He considers going to scrub his hands again, but can’t bring himself to let go of his death-grip on Damien’s cane. He still cannot remember where he got it. The odd shadows in the doorways get darker even though they should be receding in the pre-dawn light; they’ve replaced Celine and Damien at the edges of his vision. The screaming, panicking thing is deafening now. He does not know why he should care anymore.

The harsh morning light streams into the foyer, unapologetically illuminating the red covering the floor, the twisted angle of your neck, the way your skull had crumpled a bit when you hit the floor. Your skin looks ashen in the wash of light, paler even than the white marble you lay on. He wonders how cold you would be if he touched your pale, pale skin. He shudders, closing his eyes for the briefest second. When he opens them again, your eyes have closed. He is sure they were open. The screaming thing has settled on a low broken keen of fear.

_...how could you be dead..._

You move. He does not react anymore; at this point, he is almost positive he is imagining it. He is not. You move, this time to stand. The screaming panic breaks loose in his head, clawing at the walls. You are a corpse. You have not drawn breath in the ten hours he has watched over your bloodied broken body, no matter how many times you moved in the corner of his vision.

But you stand. You look towards him, unsteady on your feet. You are not quite yourself; it is fairly obvious.

He does not care. The panic, still struggling and clawing at the inside of his brain, dies swiftly after being swept away and smothered by a desperate hope. If _you_ are not dead….

....of course you’re not dead.…

….i didn’t kill you….

….i didn’t kill anyone….

....this is just a joke….

….Damien….

….Celine….

_...let me in…_

**Author's Note:**

> How was it? Present tense was weird to write in but it felt necessary, as did the weird second-person omniscient POV.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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